Silent Books
by ElnaKernor
Summary: OSs and first chapters: 1) Peter Arndt wakes up in a cell made of glass 2) Greer got John, and Samaritan knows what to do with him
1. Prisoners: What does it make you?

_And here comes a serie of crossover one-shots ( and perhaps first chapters ) between PoI and Escape Plan, with John eithe being Willard Hobbes, or his tin, or hi doppelganger, or it's just not explained, you'll see..._

* * *

 _Peter Arndt wakes up in a cell made of glass._

* * *

 _Anyone else in John Reese withdrawal here? ( Yes, mine is not going well )_

* * *

 **Prisoners: What does it make you?**

Peter Arndt woke up terrified. He didn't know where he was, he didn't know why he was there, and he didn't know who had brought him here.

What he knew was little: he had fallen asleep in his bedroom, and now he wasn't in said bedroom.

He was on a simple, uncomfortable bed, and all he could see was a ceiling of glass.

Darkness behind the glass – lights, too, in the darkness, but far, far away, and articifial. Not stars. Just... lights, beyond the glass. Far away.

Peter didn't know where he was... but he was certain there was someone else there, with him – he could hear them breathe, just a few feet away. He could sense them, even – cold, so very cold... Should he turned his head, should he try to get up, he'd certainly see them.

And perhaps he'd understand where and why.

Was it because of that money he owed to the loan sharks?

...Was it a way to get him scared?

He was terrified.

He could stand back up, and look at the person he was sure was in the room with him, and tell them he'd pay – he'd do anything they want, they didn't have to worry about that, really. Their little game had worked, they didn't need to keep him here, here he couldn't make the money he owed them.

Except...

Except Peter was terrified. Even looking at that person, who was here, in the room of glass with him... He couldn't bring himself to look.

But he'd have to, he knew that.

Peter's breathing became worse, hard, jerky. The fear was in his stomach, in his lungs, in his brain. It was slowly, but surely, engulfing his whole being. It was like sinking into deep waters without even a light to tell you where you were – not that the light would prevent you from drowning, but still...

Getting a light, though... Peter could do that. It was easy to get one, in fact. All he had to do was to be brave, and get standing – to look at the person who was here, with him, in the room.

Surely, then, he'd get answers. If not the answers he wanted, at least some answers. It was better than not knowing. Even if the loan sharks decided they wanted him dead... At least Peter would know what to fear. Should he panick, he'd at least know why.

Peter forced himself up – and looked at the man standing before a door of glass. There were men in dark getups, with black masks covering their faces standing outside, and the walls were made of glass too. But what really mattered...

The man...

Three pieces dark gray suit, cold blue tie, cold blue pocket square. Tall, silver hair, grey eyes, in his forties, smooth face – not half a feeling visible on his face. A smile, perhaps, depending on the moment – but no real feeling there.

Nothing visible, at least.

If the man standing in the glass room had any feelings left, they were probably feelings of darkness. Hatred. Rage. Disgust. On the other hand, if the man standing before Peter had only one feeling left, it was probably... a feeling of emptiness.

Devouring.

Peter was certain he had seen him before. He didn't know when or where, but he was certain...

Something about Jessica...

"What am I doing here?!"

Peter tried to stand up – but he couldn't. His hands were tied to the bed, and he hadn't noticed until now. In fact, if he was feeling particularly clear-headed, he soon noticed that his body wasn't feeling anything physical. He tried to tug at the restraints – it did nothing. Of course it did nothing.

They – whoever they were – they wouldn't have him tied up if he could just shake it off.

The man – not a stranger, no, Peter was certain he had already seen him somewhere – the man looked at him.

Gave him a cold smile – half a smile. The ghost of a smile. A mere shadow. A soulless smile. A facial expression with nothing to express. A line, not a smile.

"Prisoner 0001. Peter Arndt. Welcome to the International Detainee Unit intake. I am Warden Hobbes." A jail. A jail Peter had never heard of, but a jail nonetheless. Illegal, perhaps, secret, for all he knew, but still a jail. A place to be held – for a long time. Peter was not getting out – the line, turned slightly upwards, on Hobbes' face, told him so. Here to stay, Prisoner 0001. You are here to stay.

Why was he here to stay? What had he done? Who was Hobbes?

Why would Peter deserve to rot in a hole? – he looked around, almost frantically. He was in a cell of glass, and through the glass, he could see more cells of glass, and beyond the unit of five cells, he could see other units. The lights let him see, more or less, vaguely, the dark walls of the large place they were in. Hundreds and hundreds of units. No sunlight.

Just the glass, the cells, the units, the guards, and Warden Hobbes.

And Peter Arndt.

Nothing else. No one else. He was Prisoner 0001 after all. The others would come, he could guess – and Peter worried. What kind of people would be forgotten here, with him? What kind of people deserved to be forgotten here? What kind of monsters was he going to live with from now on?

Why was he here?

A flash. Hobbes – but had it been Hobbes at the time? Peter couldn't remember – in a bar, in New York. Waiting for Jessica, taking a drink. Speaking with Hobbes – a stranger, at the time. Also from Puyallup, like Jessica.

Like Jessica...

Peter tried to stand up, but the restrainst and the abruptness of his attempt drew him right back onto the bed – and Warden Hobbes kept staring down at him, coldly.

But was it really coldness?

"Is... Is this about Jessica?! You knew her, didn't you? Her death was an accident, I swear! I had nothing to do with that! I was even injured in the car accident, the police will tell you! If it's about Jessica, please, just let me out! I... I didn't want her to die!"

That much, at least, was true. Peter had never wanted Jessica to die, and her death had been an accident. He hadn't wanted anything to happen, but... But she had been lying to him about that phone call, he knew it, and why couldn't she have just told him the truth, why couldn't she simply love him, like he loved her? Why?!

It wasn't his fault, damn it!

Hobbes' eyes told him the man believed him – and at the same time, it was obvious that the man could tell there was more to it, that the "car accident" had been a set up, that Peter had...

Somehow, the man knew everything.

And Peter knew, it was the only reason he was here.

Because of Jessica.

Hobbes didn't answer his questions – instead, he just smiled.

At that moment, Peter could tell, there was at least one emotion left in Warden Hobbes, despite the void he seemed to give off. A large, devouring wrath – all of it dedicated to only one man.

To Peter Arndt.

Hobbes turned to the door, passed it, letting the guards in. The guards untied Peter while keeping him in sight – not that Peter would have tried anything. He wouldn't even know what to do.

Just before the glass door was closed again, Hobbes pressed a picture – Jessica, smiling, and Hobbes in an army uniform, smiling, in a sunny place, with drinks – against the glass wall, and said:

"When you find that one person who connects you to the world, you become someone different. Someone better. When that person is taken from you, what do you become then?"

His voice was low, neutral, and yet... Hobbes tucked the photo back behind his pocket square.

"Mr. Arndt, your intake is finished."

The door to Peter's glass cell closed, the words, imprinted in the man's mind.

Peter stared, lost – terrified – at the Tomb.

Prisoner 0001, Peter Arndt.


	2. The Warden

_It was dumb luck, really, that got John Reese into Greer's hands..._  
 _As it is, Samaritan knew how to make the enemy operative useful._

* * *

 _So, obviously, you need to forget that Escape Plan was in 2013... not that it's overly important even for the movie._  
 _I have other one-shot ideas for Willard Hobbes being the creation of Samaritan._

* * *

 **The Warden**

Greer circled around their guest, tied up on a chair, glaring at him – no, not glaring, just staring coldly, because the man wasn't a man of threats, but a man of acts. Their guest didn't feel the need to menace his adversaries, though he did inform them of what he might do to them if they didn't change their way, occasionally.

Such a surprise – but a good, unexpected surprise.

It had been dumb luck, really, which had gotten them the ex-CIA agent. Even as Samaritan had been unable to locate the Machine's operatives since it had come online, fifteen hours ago, one of Samaritan's agents had literally stumbled on John Reese, and from there... Dumb luck, and a great deal of armed mercenaries who'd do anything for some money, hanging around the nearest hotel.

Three of whom would not be running a marathon anytime soon, given the bullets in the knees.

"Mr Reese, such a joy to meet you again."

The man managed to twist a derisive smirk into his answer.

"Likewise, Greer. Since we're pals, couldn't you untie me, perhaps? We'd drink tea."

Sarcasm, and not the slightest worry about his continued well-being; Greer wasn't surprised. This was the man who pointlessly spent his days and nights running to save the most irrelevant numbers for the Machine, just because he believed the irrelevant numbers deserved to live – and he, John Reese, did not. Or, if anything, deserved it less than the irrelevants numbers did.

Greer shook his head fondly, and stopped his circling to face John Reese, as well as the screen where Samaritan appeared at the same time. The AI had yet to express its desire concerning the fate of the Machine's operative, and Greer wanted to be able to see it right away when it'd decide.

"So that you could break my neck? No, thank you, Mr Reese, but I'll pass."

Undeterred, the man just let out a pointedly neutral sigh.

"Such a shame."

Oh, but the man had no idea, did he? How much of a shame his loyalty to Harold Finch's Machine was... John Reese, because he believed too much in the Machine, couldn't see the beauty of Samaritan – what the new AI would bring to the world.

"A shame indeed, Mr Reese. I'd offer you to work for Samaritan..."

The screen behind the guest flickered, as if in approval, and yet fully aware of why it wasn't possible. Nothing surprising here; Greer had given it a thought too, and Samaritan could only be right, couldn't it?

"...because we could do with more people like you, but I feel the offer would be useless."

The man only arched his eyebrows in response.

Greer passed behind John Reese's back, eyes still on the screen – still no orders, but it had shifted to a surveillance view of the room they were in, facing the Machine's operative; a proof that Samaritan was keeping an active eye on the conversation.

"It is a shame, really, because finding operatives as skilled as you are... Multitask, too... Jeremies Lamberts are hard to come by, as you can guess. Most of our current assets are either efficient in only one or two domains, or good enough at many things without being particularly exceptional either. You would have been a great asset, Mr Reese, but we both know your loyalty won't change."

John Rykes' and John Reese's files – military and CIA – showed on the screen, psychological evaluations in particular. Greer already knew what was written in there, of course... but he had yet to find anything about the man's past before 1993, and Samaritan...

While the AI was able to dig up anything about John Reese – and his former official identity, John Rykes – it didn't seem able to positively identify him, even as it had him right under its nose, so to say. Miss Samantha Groves and the Machine had probably tampered with something, and now John Reese simply appeared as an "identification failure ( irrelevant )" in its system. Right now, it didn't matter all that much, because the circumstances allowed Samaritan to bypass the error thanks to Greer's own knowledge of the "identification failure ( irrelevant )"'s real identity.

Still, it meant that whoever John Rykes had been before WITSEC – Greer's intel didn't go further in time – Samaritan couldn't pin it down. Either there was next to no digital footprint for that mysterious birth identity, or the Machine was protecting it... which didn't matter, in the end. Only the consequences mattered.

Their guest rolled his eyes, turned slightly to look at Greer, and continued on with sarcasm.

"Not that I don't appreciate your hospitality, Greer, but I have things to do... A life to live... Appointments, you know? So if you could just let me go..."

The low, calm voice really went well with the fake nonchalance, Greer had to admit.

The older man turned his eyes back to the screen.

"My dear Samaritan... What shall we do with Mr Reese here?"

The man, behind Greer, didn't even tense at the question, when it was obvious that the AI now held his future. The CIA – not only the CIA, Greer suspected – had taught him well.

Such a shame that such a man would not come over to their side...

Samaritan's orders about John Reese started to appear on the screen, and Greer read on.

 _You Cannot Break Him To Betray His Friends, But You Can Shape Him To Be Of Use._

Greer looked back at the man, tied to a chair.

Yes, he guessed, it could work. The mistake every tyran made was to assign to their people tasks they normally couldn't bring themselves to carry out, like executing a family member, to test their loyalty – when, really, keeping everyone within their limits usually worked better. Because forcing someone into a corner could only go two ways: either they ended up doing what you wanted, and you knew you could trust them, or they lose their faith in whatever you defend.

John Reese didn't have faith in Samaritan, and he wouldn't sell out his friends. Greer wouldn't be surprised if the man ended up being one of these stubborn and self-sacrificial war prisoners, who could be broken inside, and yet wouldn't reveal a thing.

But if the unthinkable wasn't what Samaritan asked of him...? If Samaritan only wanted him to be useful, without asking for betrayal – not yet, at least? Once John Reese would be broken, after some time of not asking about his friends, then... Then, perhaps, there would be a chance of getting something out of the man.

If Greer, at first, only asked him things he could consider... How long would he resist, then?

"What do you propose, then?"

 _A Warden._

Ah. Right, the Tomb project... Samaritan wouldn't shy away from getting rid of whoever got in its way, obviously, but the AI had already thought of making a secret prison for the people it'd want to keep alive for now. The kind of people who could still be useful to Samaritan, but who couldn't be left running around. Potential future assets who needed some more... incentive... beforehand, for example, or terrorists who could be better used as kamikazes for Samaritan should the need arise...

John Reese, all in all, was one of these people, and wouldn't it be interesting to have him guard the others?

Greer walked back before John Reese, and smiled.

"A warden it will be, then."

 **oOo**

The long beeping sound of a medical device – yes, John was used to that sound, by now, even if he usually did his best not to get sent to the hospital – breached through his hazy consciousness. John opened his eyes for a few seconds...

It was all blurred, but he could see a woman in white shrubs leaning over him, adjusting something over his head, perhaps...

But he wasn't feeling anything.

Then, enters darkness.

 **oOo**

The hotel room from his time in Mexico – 2001, Jessica – was bright with sunlight, and John turned around in the bed to shield himself from the blinding light. It was pleasant, the sun on his skin, the...

The bed, save for himself, was empty.

John, knowing full well why, but unwilling to admit it yet, opened his eyes reluctantly – looking for Jessica. Perhaps she had already woken up, perhaps she was getting breakfeast, and he hadn't heard her leave for whatever reason. Perhaps, if he waited some more time, Jessica'd open the door with cups of coffee and something to eat.

It was visible, though, that no one had been sleeping next to him. The bed wasn't warm where Jessica would have been, the pillow wasn't deformed.

There was no Jessica here.

Hadn't been for thirteen years, in fact.

John didn't let his feelings show – never, remember, John, never let the enemy see your weaknesses. So he got up, noticed he was still dressed, if a bit unkempt, and walked out of the hotel room, to the balcony. To see Mexico – why Mexico, though? Had Greer thought it funny?

Except, when John passed the door, he didn't end up on the balcony from the hotel room – there hadn't been a balcony, remember? Why hadn't he noticed sooner?

The background was Mexico, yes, and looking back inside, John had no issue recognizing the hotel room from his time there in 2001 with Jessica. But there hadn't been a balcony – and this wasn't a balcony, either, because he wasn't upstairs, he was on ground level. And this was a terrace, with tables everywhere – and a child sitting at the furthest one.

John walked past the various tables slowly, only giving them a cursory glance. It wasn't difficult to identify the objects on the tables, really. This, over here, was the police report from Jessica's death; this was his military file; this was Donnelli's file on the Man in a Suit; this was "John Rykes"' U.S. Marshals Service file; this was Carter's file on him; this was the CIA file on "John Reese". The files were open, letting some of the pictures inside show – everything Samaritan knew about him, without exception, displayed on these tables. His medals, his crimes, his decorations, his orders of missions, his fake identities – one picture for each of them, and many documents to go with it.

John stopped just behind the boy, who was playing chess with an invisible adversary. The adversary only had their king, their queen, a bishop, a rook and a knight left. The knight was one move away from being taken.

The child first didn't say anything.

Until he did, as John had nothing to say, and someone had to begin.

"John Reese, one of the Machine's primary assets. I wanted to speak with you, before we start."

John walked around the table, and went to stand in front of the young boy – not sit, no, certainly not. Why would he sit with Samaritan, anyway?

"Before we start what?"

The boy looked up from his game, and gestured at everything around them: the fake hotel, Mexico, the tables, the files.

"I know everything about you, John Reese, and trying to break you, to turn you, is not the best way to use you, I calculated. The odds of you being useful that way are too low, unlike with what I have in thought."

John didn't particularly care for compliments from the newly born AI, in reality, but well, he'd go with it, probably. For now.

There wasn't a chance for Samaritan to convince him of anything, he knew that – John Reese was stubborn, if anything, but more than that, he was already committed to a cause, and even if his morality was dubious at best he still stood by it no matter the occasion. Samaritan and Greer went against what was left of his morals. How would they convince him of anything?

But he was curious as to what they had to say, if anything.

As to what made the AI think he could be used.

Though, before that, he felt he had to ask.

"Why this place?"

The boy smiled – but it wasn't a smile, and that disturbed John a lot. He was used to this kind of smiles, had seen it on many faces, had used it many times himself, but on a child's face... It was something else. It wasn't natural, and more than disturbing.

"It has to do with what we'll soon be starting, John Reese."

Samaritan's avatar stood up, to walk between the tables, stopping for a minute or two to look at this file or another. John followed the boy, since there wasn't really anything else to do – still, keeping a reasonable distance.

"You are a curious man, all in all. Typical operative, usual top agent, in a way, and yet very different from many of them. Still caring, enough morals to differentiate what could and what should be done, without having this judgement hinder the reality of a situation. And, more than that, very aware of all the identities you've had, of all the things you've done. You are not putting your past names and their actions behind you, be it in shame or denial, nor because you don't care, unlike many of your colleagues. And I think I've found why."

The child stopped at a table where the only documents were photographs of John, with a name, always different, printed underneath.

"I am not talking about these identities you've worn for only a few days, a few hours, these identities who are no more than covers, like John Anderson or 'Mike', but about the names you've really been living. John Rykes, Mitch Wozniak, John Reese, and I'm sure there are more, from before WITSEC; these people you've been for weeks, for months. These people you'll always keep being..."

John wasn't sure where this conversation was going, but the child's voice was getting at him, and he didn't like it.

There was something like smugness and condescendence in the boy's voice – like Root, in a way, but from a brat, and at least Root wasn't the Machine, but here, the kid really was Samaritan, he could tell. No way this was anything else than a dream, or however you'd want to call it.

"...because they were you from the very beginning. The truth is, John Reese, that you don't hide behind your fake identities; they are you. Maybe not the right name, maybe not the right past, but still you. Not cons, never a con. You aren't a conman-like operative, but an agent whose real identity is no more real than all the others."

The boy looked John in the eye.

"I need someone like you, with your skills, your loyalty, to become the warden of my personal jail, John Reese. And if I don't think there is a point in making you live hundreds of simulations until you decide you've had enough, I know I can get you to become the man I need."

John didn't comment on that, but didn't think less.

Samaritan, of course, knew that too.

"Don't be so sure of yourself, John Reese. All I need to do, is to make you live so many simulated lives that you won't know which one is the right one; so many names, that you will be forced to reinitialize. Because you cannot be hundreds of people at a time."

 **oOo**

John woke up early in the morning, with Jessica's laughter coming from the kitchen – probably on the phone with Cyndie, he thought. This had all been a nightmare, obviously...

He got up in silence, hoping to catch her unaware, to surprise her. Then he'd tell her about his nightmare, and she'd laugh at the strange ideas his sleeping brain could come up with.

Him, a CIA assassin!

Laughable!

Frank – from his brother's name – and Zoe, their kids, would probably like the tale, though. They liked it when he became the classy villain in their bedtime stories, apparently. Wonder why, really. He wasn't such a bad parent, was he?

John got his hands over Jessica's eyes, just as she hang up the phone.

"Steve, you're already up?"

John – Steve? – blinked. Had he dreamed his first name too?

As he didn't answer right away, Jessica extricated herself from his hands, and turned around to look at him, seemingly concerned.

"Steve?"

Steve smiled at her, passing his surprise off as a moment of harmless distraction.

 **oOo**

Steve blinked, as a woman put a hand on his shoulder – handing him the salad.

"You're alright, Matt?"

Steve – Matt smiled back at his wife.

"Of course, Mary."

Matt Kendricks was living a happy family life, in between the construction work he did in Boston and the few visits to the hospital, checking that his cancer really was gone. Why would he imagine being anyone else?

 **oOo**

Matt blinked, as a dull sound resonated behind him. His eyes fell on the nameplate on his desk – Andrew Green, and he shook his head. He really needed to focus on the papers he was taking care of, before the employees came in to complain about the too old tools and gear.

Matt – Andrew was busy, and couldn't let his mind wander.

Andrew needed to work to feed his family, after all. Like everyone else.

 **oOo**

Nathaniel Hawthorne was just another soldier of the US Army, who had left his girlfriend, Claire, after 2001, thinking he wouldn't come back. Now, Claire had been killed by her husband, and Nathaniel didn't know what to do – except throwing the man in a dark, dark hole, where no one would ever find him again.

 **oOo**

Boyd Lerins had a drinking problem, but other than that, he was overall a good guy.

Except his name wasn't Boyd, but Eliot.

 **oOo**

He was Hank Bryant.

 **oOo**

Or was he?

 **oOo**

He was sitting on a chair, in the middle of a cold, metallic room, behind an empty desk. Impersonal setting. Nothing to tell him who he was, what he liked, how he did things. Just a room, a door, a desk, and files, neatly stacked on a shelf.

He idly watched as a young boy came and sat before him, on the other side of the desk. The child looked like he knew what he was doing – and probably, he did. He surely had every rights to be here, or else, he wouldn't be.

The boy handed him a book, by Ray Breslin – about jails of all things.

"Willard Hobbes, right?"

He guessed that was his name – of course it was, how could he have forgotten? People didn't forget their name, but he had, just for a second; how unusual was that?

"Of course, Samaritan. What can I do for you?"

Why was he discussing such things with a child – why not? Besides, this wasn't a child. The boy was only Samaritan's interface, of course. Because he spoke for the AI didn't mean he was the AI, or that the AI was the boy. Willard should know that, damn it!

Perhaps he had a cold, and that was why he wasn't as sharp as usual. He really needed to get that treated, then.

Samaritan's avatar smiled, pleased despite Willard's incertainty.

"I need someone to keep some dangerous and otherwise unpleasant individuals jailed, Willard Hobbes, and you are perfect for the job. Skilled both in containment and evading, dangerous, and aware of it. From now on, you are the warden of the Tomb, my prison. You are already in your office, as it is."

Willard smiled sweetly – at no one in particular, and there was a steely taste to his smile.

"Of course, Samaritan."

The boy too smiled. He got up, went for the door, only giving the room one last look before adding:

"You should decorate accordingly to your tastes. And if you don't know what your tastes are, people usually are good at what they like. I heard you wear quite good at control, fighting, killing..."

Willard Hobbes' steely smile didn't disappear, as the child left.

 **oOo**

Somewhere in an abandoned subway station, a forgotten payphone rang.

Willard Hobbes' number had come to the Machine's attention.


	3. Prisoners: The other side

_The Tomb is house to a number of criminals... and so Kara Stanton ends up a prisoner there too._

* * *

 _Let's just say there are two different sides to the ship/jail, one for men, one for women, with staff of corresponding gender - except the warden, who is obviously Willard Hobbes for both sides_

* * *

 **Prisoners: The other side**

Kara's mission for Decima, the one that should have ended with her getting the name of the person responsible for her burn notice, didn't end well.

First thing first, she hadn't been able to find John, even if she was certain he had survived Ordos – he had, after all, left, while she had stayed behind to be blown away by a missile. Decima had been able to give her a facial recognition footage from New York, with John well alive appearing on it, and looking just as broken as she had been. Yet, she hadn't been able to find anything after that. The only thing she knew for certain was that John had last been seen in New York Harbor. She suspected he had found someone to work for... Or perhaps he had gone off the grid alone, she wasn't sure.

Kara had, on the other hand, found Mark. Her former handler had been looking, just like her, for John. Apparently their former teammate had used the identity Michael Conor and stolen Summakor right from under the Agency's nose, terminating the sleeping agent inside the company and cutting off all the communications.

John was, after all, Summakor Corporation's only owner – long story, involving a mission back in 2009 that he had done mostly on his own, under the cover identity of Michael Conor, at the end of which John had unexpectedly become the "official" owner of a transnational firm, at least on paper. Now, whatever he had done to make it happen, Summakor was completely out of the CIA's hands, and into John's.

The company seemed to be working as usual, though. John had probably taken control for the money, and perhaps the technology. What he was planning to do with it was a mystery.

Not that it mattered much for Kara right now, considering she had been caught, and was headed to one of the supersecret CIA prisons or something, for the rest of her life – only a few days before the attack on the DoD facility, Mark and her had been found out, and well...

At least Mark's bomb vest had taken care of her former handler. She'd have hated it if he had just gone back to work after what he had done to John and her – though, she wasn't sure even Mark Snow could wiggle himself entirely out of a compromised status. But he might still have managed to just retire, be put on indefinite leave, something like that.

At least he was dead now.

Kara gritted her teeth in anger, as she was pushed along a long corridor. She had a black hood on her head, evidently, and she had been drugged for the trip to the prison, so she had no idea where she actually was, but...

Agents such as herself, when they were considered a traitor and there were actual proofs of the treason, always ended up in a black site jail not very people knew about, if they weren't killed as they tried to escape. To be fair, circumstances as the ones in Ordos, when they were ordered to simply dispose of their colleagues, didn't happen often – from time to time, yes, but not that often.

A forced retirement usually meant there wasn't any usable proof against the agent, but the higher-ups knew for sure they had switched sides / taken a bribe / whatever... and they didn't want to take it up to the even-higher-ups.

She should have realized something was wrong when Mark had told her John was a traitor, and she had to clean up behind him.

First, because of the unknown woman who had given them the orders for Ordos – it was always Mark, or Beale, who gave the direct orders. Not an unknown woman.

Second, because John would cut his head off with a plastic knife before betraying his country. The guy breathed martyrdom, for God's sake, he lived to bleed for the innocents and never get a thank you. He might question the orders, from time to time, but John wouldn't ever sell secrets to another country. He did things because he thought them right – or at least less wrong than not doing it – not for the money, the fame or the advancement.

To be clear, John Reese might have, one day, given the opportunity, acted against the CIA, but he would never have done it for someone else, for profit. He would have done it because he believed it to be the right thing to do.

John Reese didn't switch sides – he stopped believing in the agents, never in the goal.

And Mark had told Kara she had to clean up, because John was a traitor – laughable. How could she have even believed that? It was ridiculous.

Well, it turned out Mark had told the very same thing to John – Kara didn't have a hero complex, her, so it could sound a bit more believable – and yet John hadn't killed her.

What was John doing, now? Where was he?

Certainly not on his way to a secret prison like she was, she could guess. That's what revenge had earned her – and John didn't do revenge at the cost of innocent lives. John could shoot, maim, kill someone in revenge, but he'd never put bystanders in grave danger as a collateral damage, as she had done. Moreover, he'd see the person responsible as a target, but he wouldn't hold the organization as responsible – because one person was a bastard didn't make the entire system wrong, he'd say.

Besides, he'd never consider himself worth a revenge – someone else, yes, and Kara herself might even have been it, if she hadn't shot him in a blatant act of "nothing personal, John" in Ordos.

Kara wasn't sure where John got his holier-than-you beliefs from, but she could just tell he'd react like that.

For all she knew, he had gone and gotten himself employed by another agency / vigilante group / whatever-allowed-him-to-take-out-bad-guys-and-think-he-was-making-the-world-a-better-place. Or, considering he had gotten hold of Summakor Corporation, he had started his own business, taking out villains and running the transnational firm on the side to assure the income.

Whatever.

She was sat on a hard chair, her hands still handcuffed with a ziptie, the chain between her feet making it impossible to run off. Whoever was responsible for this place knew what they were doing – logical, considering it wasn't just another jail, but most likely a place made for people like her.

It irked her.

Kara waited about one minute, wondering where she was – already thinking about ways to escape, to make this place hell. It would all depend if the prison was above or underground, if the prisoners were always confined to their cells or if they got time out, no matter how surveilled...

A door opened, she heard a few footsteps, and the black hood was taken off.

Kara blinked, getting used to the light again. Not fast, at that. She still couldn't tell what the man in front of her looked like exactly when he started speaking – tall, John-like perhaps, dressed in shades of cold, but that was it for now.

"Prisoner 1645. Kara Stanton. Welcome to the International Detainee Unit, women side, intake. I am Warden Hobbes."

Kara did a double take at the voice – cold, cold, way too cold, but still his voice, still recognizable... She blinked once more, and the room became better defined.

The man sitting on the other chair, looking completely blank – different – did too.

"John?"

He wore a three pieces gray suit, shining dark blue shirt, grey tie and pocket square. Getting John to wear a tie was like getting Mark to smile genuinely – Kara thought the only times she had seen him dressed up was either in a tux with a bow tie or when he was playing Michael Conor at the end of the mission. It just didn't usually happen.

But unless John had a twin brother, Kara could tell the man was her former partner. There just wasn't another explanation.

Except if John was in fact one of many clones, which would explain why he was so weird about some things, like, you know, humanity.

The man looked up from his folder and gave her a look – cold, empty, so-not-John when it should be John. It didn't look like he wasn't recognizing her, but more like the look he gave other agents when they called him by his name instead of his alias during a covert mission. The look that said "do you really think we have time for that?". The nonsense look.

Kara had never been on the end of that particular look, but she knew it well enough.

Then John – Willard Hobbes – looked back at the folder, his face completely bank.

"Ms Stanton, your intake is finished."

And that was it. Kara Stanton was now a prisoner of the Tomb, on the other side. Nothing more. Just a prisoner. And no matter how many times she tried, Hobbes never let John out to play.


End file.
